This is a post about a breakup, my breakup. A breakup I’ve rarely discussed save a few long discussions with key people in my life. A breakup which started with love, and ended with love.
“A” and I met during transitional periods in our lives. I had some serious emotional issues I was dealing with, and he was beginning his journey of self-discovery. I was growing healthy while he was growing up. We were (and still are) different in many ways, but we were able to use those differences to help one another during a time when we really needed another we could call home.
A is a wonderful man. He is intelligent, loyal, trustworthy, compassionate, a great listener, understanding, forgiving, funny, attractive, fun, supportive, romantic, and a laundry list of other things you’d want a mate to be. I would look at other people’s partners and think, “What an idiot. I’m lucky to have A.”
We did all the things couple should do if they want to stay together. We communicated our thoughts and feelings. We resolved all of our issues instead of sweeping them under the rug. We hugged and kissed often. We practiced random acts of romance for the other. We always had fun, and believed in living a life of adventure. We never let “being right” become more important than being in love. We’d admit when we were wrong, and apologized when necessary.
As everyone knows, relationships are complicated. There are times when a breakup is the obvious choice, and people hang on by the skin of their teeth as they destroy each other. There are times when a relationship is copacetic, and the people in it find themselves having the “I think it’s over” discussion. There are reasons and seasons for everything, and I’m beginning to understand this more and more as I mature.
There wasn’t one thing that ended our relationship. No big fight, no act of betrayal, no dramatic event. It was a simple conversation we had sitting on the living room floor of our apartment. One of us spoke first, and the other agreed. Our relationship was over. Continue reading